A writer’s journey
When I was young, I loved reading novels and fancied that I might become a writer myself. Teenage angst seemed a prerequisite to becoming a good writer. By that criterion, I was likely qualified!
But nothing I wrote looked any good to me. I’d wake up the next morning, read what I’d penned the night before, and … ugh! I’d tear it up. Sometimes, I’d burn it. I didn’t have much to say or a strong point of view. I was strong on desire but weak on substance. And of course …. nothing I wrote compared to Hemingway or Fitzgerald, so talented even when so young.
Young Ernest & Scott
At 20, I shared my dream with my English professor. He was fond of me and, after listening to me, tried to give me good advice, “Tim, you’ll never be a writer. You don’t have the words.” Or the experience, he added. Every great writer, he asserted, must have lived in New York or fought in a war. (!!!)
But I was a kid with low self-esteem. And he was a father figure. I accepted his advice as a death sentence, one I later learned I’d already given myself. So I buried the corpse of my dream while telling myself I’d reach too high.
But then … I wasn’t going to be a good English Literature professor either. So … who was I?
A fortunate man, that’s what. I got therapy from wise therapists. I found a life of accomplishment and happiness. I married a wonderful girl who loved me. We had amazing experiences together. Our two sons challenged us and taught me so much that I still say they raised me, not the other way around. I became happy with my life. And self-esteem eventually came along for the ride.
But long ago, a dream had visited me. It had taken residence somewhere inside. And here’s the thing about dreams: They don’t let go. If you don’t do something about them, they attack you. Sometimes, that dream reminded me that it was still there. In silent moments, I heard its angry reproach: “failure.”
There was that self-esteem thing again. I’d lived with something unfulfilled. When I retired at 72, I said, “I will face the regret. I will write.”
Eight years later, I completed my first novel. Others will judge if it’s any good or decide whether I “have the words.” Frankly, dear professor: I don’t give a damn!
Funny thing is, I learned much from a life I could never have foreseen as a young man. I never could have written then a story with the depth of this novel. I needed to live first in order to write. It took a few decades. This was my journey.
Every writer has a unique journey. If you’re a closeted writer, the stories accumulating in the closet within, wait for the right moment when you’re ready to set them free. You could be like my 12-year-old friend Mason, whose voice is ready now, or your voice might take decades. Only you will know when that time has arrived. And nothing in that experience will be wrong.
Where will your journey take you?